


Duty & Desire

by Apple_Queen



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-02
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-09-05 15:26:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16813378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apple_Queen/pseuds/Apple_Queen
Summary: A regency romance AU.  If Brienne doesn't catch up with the carriage she's chasing after, she might just go down in history as the worst governess ever.  But how did she get herself into this position?  Who is the mystery man with her?  And most importantly, will she ever catch up with the runaways?





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my first multi-chapter fic! This was inspired by the wonderful Georgette Heyer, I hope she isn't turning over in her grave... 
> 
> A quick note on a title system I've invented: Land owners are generally Lord and Lady (Lord and Lady Stark, Lord and Lady Baratheon), their heir will be a Ser (Ser Robb, Ser Jaime- sadly Regency Westeros is still very patriarchal) and women are either Miss or Mrs if they aren't a Lady. The iron throne is a bit of a relic, the country is ruled jointly by a warden from each region, although that title is still inherited rather than voted on democratically. Ned, Tywin and Robert are all wardens.
> 
> Lastly, a huge thank you to Katykrash for the beta- you've made this far more coherent and really upped the Regency feel!

Brienne raised a hand to shade her eyes from the bright autumn sun, low in the sky. She squinted despairingly down the narrow country road for any sign of the carriage they were frantically chasing. After rattling along in the curricle at breakneck speed for six hours—with only the briefest pauses at any coaching houses they’d passed to change horses and inquire after the runaways—she was beginning to lose hope. And patience.

Her companion’s stony silence did little to help her fraying nerves, as he was so uncharacteristically foregoing his incessant blend of caustic teasing and subtle flirting. She supposed he must be as exhausted as she was, and had probably begun to blame her for their predicament. Although his expression seemed more pensive than angered.

The curricle shook awfully on the next bend and veered dangerously close to a ditch. Brienne turned irritably to him.

“Give me the reins, you need to rest” she demanded. A glare was her only response. “I can drive a team just as well as you can,” she asserted.

“Perhaps my lady could prove her skills another time, when we aren’t trying to thwart the most disastrous match of the century?” he groused. “For now, I’d rather not risk an overturned curricle.”

Brienne’s already threadbare temper snapped. She snatched the reins unceremoniously from his hands, making the horses rear before she was able to bring them back under control. Seeing her command the team so easily, he seemed to decide against fighting her for the reins, instead leaning back and sulkily crossing his arms.

“I’m still not a lady, and I have been driving a team on roads far worse than these since I was a child,” she retorted.

Part of her hoped her words would draw him into an argument, yet she was only met with further silence. Even so, time passed more easily with a focus other than her worries, and eventually her companion’s fondness for the high-spirited horses drew him out enough to give her unnecessary advice such as when to begin turning for each and every corner.

As the Kingsroad straightened into a section obviously first built by the First Men, her thoughts began to wander once again. Brienne began to appreciate just how much she had missed driving a carriage during her months in Kings Landing. She resented society’s ridiculous rules that the pastime was unacceptable for a woman, affectionately recalling long drives on Tarth with her father beside her and a picnic basket at their feet.

But that was before she’d had to leave home at any cost. It was not that she did not appreciate Lady Stark taking her on as a governess despite her being so woefully unqualified for the role. And she had grown to care deeply about her charges—as evidenced by this reckless pursuit—but she was unsure how her life in Kingslanding had turned out so very differently to how she’d imagined.

Brienne was unable to stop the memories flooding back.

~ * ~

The boat rocked its way across the water, the colours changing from sapphire to turquoise the closer they got to Kingslanding. _The further they were from Tarth._

Brienne spent the journey on deck, reminding herself repeatedly that leaving her home for the first time was an adventure, trying to ignore the wrenching feeling in her chest and the tears she was determined to hold back. The words her father had whispered in her ear on the dock at Tarth echoed as loudly in her mind every few minutes as if he were beside her now. _I’ll not love you any less if you fail, little star—you’ll always have a home here_ , he’d said.

_If only that were true_ , thought Brienne. But she could never tell her father that she had insisted on leaving to become a governess because Evenfall had gradually felt less like a home since he’d remarried, until the day she’d realised she was just an inconvenience. _This is for the best_ , she told herself yet again.

Lady Stark had seemed very kind in her letters, so Brienne hoped she would be able to carve out a little life of her own on the mainland. If society in Kingslanding did not accept ladies in many of the pursuits she enjoyed at home, then so be it—Brienne would do whatever she could to try and fit in, at least as much as her unconventional appearance would allow.

Sailors jostled Brienne on the gangplank in spite of her towering over them all. She drew herself up taller, trying to channel the only decent governess she’d had as a child, the one who had exuded calm elegance and sound advice. She might not be as old as a typical governess, but she was by no means an uneducated chit. She looked down at one of her new grey gowns in a modest cut. _At least the drab colour makes me look a little more the part, if a little unwell_ , she rued.

The dock was a bustle of multiple breeds of animal, fast-moving carts and people in all manners of dress. The clamouring noise and overwhelming smells—predominantly fish and cabbage—made Brienne falter. She had no idea about life in such a big city. But she couldn’t turn and run as soon as she reached the dock; there was, simply, no going back.

She dragged her portmanteau into an empty spot before it was claimed by an oyster seller declaring his wares or the group of children who had been running about underfoot. Lady Stark had promised to send a carriage to collect her; she just had to trust her new mistress was not forgetful.

“’Scuse me, Miss, are you Miss Tarth, the new governess?” asked a voice at her elbow. She turned to see a timid-looking boy with warm brown eyes dressed in a footman’s suit.

“Yes,” replied Brienne, relieved. The boy bowed and introduced himself as Podrick, third footman, before taking hold of her case with a grunt, eventually deciding to drag it. Brienne discreetly picked up the back end, pitying Podrick for his puffs of exhaustion. The carriage he led her to was a modern black one with the Stark sigil on the doors.

The journey through the streets gave Brienne a little time to prepare herself to meet the Starks, and to try and acquaint herself with the city she was now to call home. The noise and bustle slowly dissipated as they left the docks and entered more genteel areas, with rows of elegant matching town houses and overly manicured gardens.

Soon enough, she was shown into a drawing room decorated with fashionable Mereenese wallpaper in shades of green and blue, giving the space a calming air Brienne was grateful for. Lady Stark was a serious woman with fiery hair that Brienne hoped didn’t hint at a similar temperament. The subtle softening in her eyes when she introduced her daughters was reassuring though.

The eldest of her new charges was an eighteen-year-old beauty with her mother’s auburn locks and creamy porcelain-doll-like skin. The young woman seemed as biddable as the doll she resembled and genuinely friendly, as well. The second daughter was plainer, but with a stubborn independent tilt to her chin that worried Brienne. She would have to work hard to win over the sixteen-year-old.

“My eldest, Robb, is out at present, but you will meet him at dinner,” explained Lady Stark. “My youngest two boys are at Winterfell, our country estate, with their father, so at present it will be just Sansa and Arya for you to work with. As they are almost grown, I expect your primary role will be as a chaperone,” she continued.

Little did Brienne realise at the time just how difficult a task chaperoning the two girls would prove to be. Settling into Kingslanding was easier than she had expected, though. It helped that Sansa and Arya had also not long arrived for their first stay in the capital, so the whirlwind of social engagements was new and exciting for all of them.

Indeed, she well remembered that first ball, which she would always look back on as a turning point—the point at which her life in Kingslanding became almost as complicated and uncomfortable as it had been in Tarth.

Sansa and Arya wore matching white satin gowns, suitable for debutantes, with lace overlay in gold for Sansa and silver for Arya. Brienne’s only ballgown was suitably grey, yet in taffeta to distinguish it from her day dresses. They were almost late enough to be past fashionable, due to Sansa’s extended preening and Arya’s attempts to procrastinate by relentlessly quizzing Brienne about how to drive a team of four. She knew she should not have admitted to the eccentricity of driving and racing horses on Tarth, but it had elevated her to goddess status in Arya’s eyes, so she tried not to feel too guilty about it. B _y the time we return to Winterfell, Arya may have forgotten all about my promise to teach her to drive_ , Brienne hoped.

In fact, that turned out to be the least of her worries.

Brienne found a seat with the other chaperones at the back of the ballroom, glad not to have to make a spectacle of herself on the dance floor. She had been anxious about monitoring both girls at once, knowing they wouldn’t want to spend any appreciable length of time together, but Sansa and Arya spent the night in and out of the chairs next to her, seeming to gravitate back towards familiarity after each dance. Halfway through the night, Lady Stark joined them from the card room. Brienne felt her employer stiffen beside her when an insincere-looking blonde woman approached with a handsome, dark-haired young man in tow.

Sansa beamed up at the man in a way she hadn’t done for any of the other men that night, then blushed prettily at his interested gaze.

Lady Stark rose and curtseys and bows were exchanged. “Lady Baratheon, may I present my daughter Miss Sansa Stark and her governess Miss Tarth.”

“Lady Stark, may I present my son, Ser Joffrey Baratheon.”

Ser Joffrey wasted no time in peeling Sansa off to dance. The small talk between the two mothers was laced with venom and lasted just long enough to be barely polite before Lady Baratheon stalked away, nose in the air.

“How I loathe Lannisters,” muttered Lady Stark under her breath.

“I thought she was a Baratheon?” whispered Brienne.

“Now she is, but she was born Cersei Lannister,” explained Lady Stark. “The bad blood between the Lannisters and my husband’s family goes back centuries, and I must say, having come out in the same season as that vicious woman, I am inclined to take the Starks’ part.”

Brienne watched as Sansa happily moved through the steps with her partner. Worry gnawed at her insides as she saw him steer Sansa to an isolated seat and press a glass of champagne into her hand. And then another and another. Sansa was becoming increasingly giggly and open with him. Lady Stark was oblivious, happily conversing with a friend on her other side.

Despite her clammy hands and secret desire to pretend naught was amiss, Brienne knew as Sansa’s governess, she had to intervene. She pressed through the happy throng at the periphery of the dance floor and on to the alcove where her charge was ensconced.

Sansa looked up at her with glassy, unfocussed eyes. Brienne pointedly ignored the hostile look Joffrey openly threw at her.

“Oh, isn’t it a marvellous night, M-miss T-tarth,” hiccupped Sansa. “And S-ser J-joffrey is going to take me for a d-drive in the p-park tomorrow!”

“How lovely, Miss Stark. Your mother would like to speak with you. Begging your pardon, Ser.”

For once, Brienne was grateful for her excessive height and muscle mass. For such a willowy girl, Sansa required a surprising amount of strength to keep upright and moving in a straight line.

“Brienne, I think I am going to be quite unwell,” whispered Sansa when they were halfway across the room, turning the rest of her governess’s night into a whirl of holding back red hair in the retiring room, lying about headaches to arrange an early carriage home, and soothing tears at the possibility that anyone might know. Although perjuring her soul to her new employer made Brienne feel dreadful, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it when her charge looked up at her, still woozy and pale, and said quietly, “Thank you, Brienne, you’re the best governess we’ve ever had…please don’t ever let me drink champagne again, though.”

Brienne would have gone to bed feeling flushed with her success as a governess, but nagging anxiety tainted any sense of pleasure. Ser Joffrey Baratheon had not left her with a good opinion of his character, nor of his intentions towards Sansa. She had a terrible premonition that no good would come of a closer acquaintance between the two young people or their families.

~ * ~

Eventually, the hurried pair was greeted with the sight of a brightly coloured coaching house sign in the distance, creaking noisily in the light wind. ‘The Torn Man,’ Brienne could just make out.

“Pull over here, before we reach sight of the building,” demanded her companion.

Brienne acquiesced, but not without an unseemly eye roll. _Of course he doesn’t want to be seen being driven by a woman._

“We shall have to stay here for the night whether our runaways are present or not, the light is fading.”

At his words, Brienne took note of the lengthening shadows and chill air her thoughts had kept her from recognising. He pulled at one of his gloves.

“Thank the gods you have such large hands for a woman,” he said, sounding a little more like his normal self. Once he succeeding in extricating his hand from the snug leather, he turned his attention to a gold signet ring, sliding it off his littlest finger. “You’ll have to wear this and answer to Mrs Lannister."


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos for chapter one, I hope you all enjoy the second installment :)
> 
> Thanks again to my lovely beta KatyKrash!

“How hurtful—you act as though even _pretending_ to be my wife would be a horrible prospect!”

Brienne held back a laugh. He had an odd ability to make her laugh at the most inopportune moments. In truth, the thought of being his wife—something she knew full well was impossibly out of reach—was temptingly appealing, and not something she wanted to get into the habit of pining for.

Somehow she’d gone from disliking and mistrusting him to appreciating that he was quite the handsomest man she’d ever met, and of late she’d begun to realise that underneath his cloak of sarcasm was an incomparably honourable, kind man who cared deeply for his friends and relatives. But he was plainly insane if he thought a single person in the inn would believe for a second that someone like him would be married to a mannish governess like herself.

Jaime, however, did not seem prepared to take no for an answer. He took firm possession of her left hand before she could withdraw it and drew off her glove, one finger at a time. His careful movements felt strangely intimate; her hand tingled, and Brienne felt tongue-tied and flushed. He slowly slipped his ring onto her third finger and his eyes met hers with a look that brokered no arguments. He seemed about to say something else but changed his mind and shut his mouth firmly again. Brienne looked down at the signet ring to see a smug lion roaring up at her.

“This is completely unnecessary. I assure you I could not care less for whatever reputation I have remaining. And nobody is going to believe someone like you is married to someone like me anyway,” she added.

“Whyever not? They’ll believe what I tell them to believe.”

“Just look at me!”

“Well, that is a rather awful bonnet you’re wearing, but other than that…” he trailed off, and then decided to finish his thought. “You know the saying that beauty is in the eye of the beholder? Well, I’ve always thought that applies to ugliness too. You and I seem to behold your appearance rather differently… You may as well take us into the courtyard now.”

“You don’t want to take back the reins?” she asked, as surprised by this as by his cryptic speech.

“No, no—you’ve done quite well. I should have guessed the only woman to ever beat me on horseback would also be an excellent whip,” he grinned.

As at all the others, nobody at this posting house recalled seeing a dark-haired young man with a red-headed young lady. Brienne tried to reassure herself that surely they had come this way but the forecourt had been too busy for anyone to take much notice of them. Any couple eloping from Kingslanding always went directly to Harrenhal for the furthest south-remaining godswood—everyone knew that. And Sansa’s letter had mentioned marriage. Brienne prayed Joffrey’s intentions had been the same.

The room Jaime had hired for his ‘wife’ and himself, whilst Brienne had shifted fretfully from foot to foot, was warm and dim, with a small table before the fire at which they shared a meal of bland stew and crusty bread. Jaime amused himself whilst they ate by calling her ‘Mrs Lannister’ as often as possible, then descended to the tap room to see whether he might hear any news of their quarry. Brienne was left to turn in with just her thoughts for company.

~ * ~

As daughters of the Warden of the North, Sansa and Arya should have been deemed highly desirable guests, yet it took some weeks before they were granted vouchers for Frey’s Assembly Rooms—colloquially known as ‘the marriage mart’. Brienne suspected that the ‘she’ Lady Catelyn fumed about being behind this slight was Lady Baratheon. Although Brienne wasn’t sure why Lady Baratheon would do so, for she seemed to be looking favourably upon the budding romance between Sansa and her son.

For a place that was so often spoken of in hushed, reverent tones, Brienne found Frey’s quite disappointing. True, the ballroom was beautiful, with its domed ceiling and stained glass windows raining colours down into the already brightly dressed crowd. But the company was more restricted than the private balls they had been to, the champagne was flat, and the musicians were mediocre at best. The stringent rules meant that behaviour was circumspect, leaving Brienne rather bored without even the other guests’ ridiculous conduct for her silent amusement.

After several hours of stilted small talk, a sudden hush fell over the ballroom. Necks craned towards the entrance, and even the musicians missed several notes from the Riverlands country dance they were playing. Whispers broke out and rapidly whipped from a breeze to a gale.

Brienne and Sansa sidled about until they could see the subject of such interest. _Just a man_ , frowned Brienne. From this distance, she couldn’t see him particularly clearly—he seemed to be passably handsome, with golden hair and a well-fitted coat hinting at expansive muscles, but very sure of himself, with a prowling gait and self-assured gaze in the face of so many stares. But Brienne could see nothing about him that deserved such a reception.

Sansa seemed to think otherwise. She lunged straight for Brienne’s ear and hissed excited ticklish words to her.

“That’s Joffrey’s uncle, Ser Jaime Lannister! He killed a man in a duel when he was only seventeen and had to run away to Essos for _years_. He’s been the most courted man in all of Kingslanding ever since he returned. Nobody knows why he won’t marry. I don’t think he’s set foot in here ever before, I wonder what’s bought him here tonight... Don’t you think he’s handsome, though—almost as handsome as Joffrey?”

“Maybe he’s changed his mind about marriage and is looking for a bride?” Brienne whispered in return.

“Amongst the debutantes?!”

They both giggled so hard at this they didn’t notice the crowd part and the subject of their gossip approach, accompanied by Ser Joffrey.

Brienne’s laughter died abruptly as her eyes met Ser Jaime’s. Embarrassed, she dropped into an appropriate curtsy, vaguely hearing Ser Joffrey boredly performing the introductions.

Ser Jaime gave a half bow without inclining his head, and Brienne gazed up at him from her curtsy, staring with shock into his green eyes that sparked with humour. Although she knew it was terrible manners, she simply could not break contact with the man’s gaze. He must suspect that she and Sansa had been talking about him. Close up, Brienne realised that she had done him a disservice: he was more than just passably handsome, he was the most attractive man she’d ever seen. He seemed very aware of that, though, so she had been right on that front.

Sansa smiled at him expectantly, but it was Brienne he turned to. “Miss Tarth, would you do me the honour?” he asked, extending his hand. Sansa’s face started to drop but picked up again when Joffrey reached for her without bothering to ask permission.

Brienne’s heart skipped several beats. What could he possibly want with her? As much as she would prefer to continue hiding in the corner, she knew dancing with him was not something she could reasonably decline. He led her out onto the floor for her first dance since coming to the city as the first strains of a waltz built in volume. Brienne felt a sense of dread with an underlying frisson of excited anticipation and tried to ignore the tingling sensation developing under the warm hand at her waist.

With the first turn she saw Lady Catelyn frowning; with the second she noticed what seemed like everyone in the ballroom staring and barely disguising their whispers. They must be making quite a spectacle—the handsomest man in the room waltzing with the ugliest woman, and an unknown governess at least as tall as him at that. By the third turn she forgot all about the gossips, because Ser Jaime inclined his head towards hers and quietly spoke.

“Are you sure you should be wearing a dress?”

If the thought of causing any more of a scene hadn’t been completely abhorrent to Brienne, she would have left him on the dance floor there and then.

“Did you ask me to dance purely to insult me?” she countered angrily, and turned her head a little more to stare angrily into his eyes.

Ser Jaime must have been shocked at her look of anger and at how close together their faces had inadvertently become. He caught his breath and stared back for a few fraught seconds before glancing down at her lips, then away.

“I apologise. I did not wish to have to come here tonight, and it has put me into rather a bad mood. But that is no excuse for forgetting my manners.”

Brienne made a noncommittal noise, wishing the dance were over. He pressed gently at her waist, guiding them around another couple moving more slowly.

Ser Jaime made another attempt at conversation. “It’s much easier to dance with someone nearer to my height.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t trodden on your feet, yet,” she returned sourly. She felt relieved as the music neared its final crescendo.

“I came here because I need your help. Would you meet me on the balcony in ten minutes?” Ser Jaime asked in a rush before the dance ended. He didn’t wait for a reply, instead depositing her back in a seat by Arya and promptly making himself scarce.

“What was that about?” asked Arya in shocked tones.

“I have no idea,” replied Brienne, trying to ignore the stares that had followed her from the dance floor. She noticed one or two young men making their way over with intent expressions, probably wanting to find out if there was something about her they’d overlooked, given Ser Jaime’s interest. Brienne shot an apologetic look over her shoulder and fled to the retiring room to collect her thoughts.

_Should I go out to the balcony?_ It would probably be deserted. She would certainly caution Sansa and Arya against such behaviour, but she had no doubt that Ser Jaime was not at all interested in her romantically. The frisson of excitement returned to her stomach, and Brienne realised she wouldn’t be able to overcome her curiosity at whatever he sought her help with.

The air on the balcony was welcomingly chill. Brienne took a few deep, cleansing breaths while she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dim light spilling out of the ballroom. Ser Jaime’s form developed, leaning against the balustrade, staring out into the inky blackness. He slowly turned towards her.

“I knew you’d come.”

“Well, I don’t know why I have,” she replied acerbically. “Kindly tell me what it is you wish of me so I can return to my charges.”

“My nephew Joffrey... he and Miss Stark... would not suit,” he finished uncertainly.

Brienne bristled. She already knew as much but suspected his reasons for saying so were very different to hers. “Perhaps if you and your sister do not wish for a closer alliance with the Starks you would be better placed speaking to your nephew than to me!”

“No!” He reached for her hand before she could storm off the balcony. “My sister does not know I have sought this audience. Joffrey can be... cruel... marrying him would only bring a delicate girl like Miss Stark unhappiness. You are the best person to discourage her from any closer acquaintance with him.”

Brienne gasped with surprise, and with relief that she had an unexpected ally who also seemed to realise how unadvisable the match would be. Since their first meeting with Joffrey, Brienne had noticed so many little cruelties, from how hard he whipped his horses to how he spoke to the servants. She had been completely unable to find any successful way to distance the couple, especially given that all of their acquaintance seemed to think it a brilliant match. Sansa had proven herself surprisingly stubborn about the matter whenever Brienne had attempted to broach the subject.

“I have already been trying to do so, but Sansa is quite set on him and nobody else seems to appreciate what we can both see clearly… I don’t know what else to do,” Brienne said sadly.

Ser Jaime suddenly seemed to realise he was still holding her hand, he dropped it as if it were on fire. “Is there another young man you could promote instead? What does Lady Stark think of the match?”

“Perhaps Ser Loras Tyrell... Lady Stark seems keen for Sansa to become a Lady, so her options are limited. Otherwise, I am certain she would not wish for Sansa to become your sister’s daughter in law.”

Ser Jaime gave a bark of laughter. “Yes, there is no love lost between them. I think our only course of action is for you to try and promote Ser Loras and insert yourself into any cosy tête-à-têtes Joffrey and Miss Stark attempt. I will try to persuade Joffrey that he is too young yet to be thinking of marriage.”

Although Brienne was grateful for his assistance, she couldn’t help wondering. “Of course I will do so, but Ser... why do you care?”

“Perhaps I suspect nothing good would come of the marriage, and feel my family has weathered enough scandal already... Now, will you meet me again in a week to compare progress? Somewhere less repugnant? Do you ride?”

Something about his tone did not convince Brienne he was being honest about his motivations, but she didn’t press the matter. If she wanted his help, she didn’t think belligerence would be the way to achieve it.

“Every morning in the park between seven and eight,” she admitted, quite aware that her self-indulgent habit was not particularly becoming, and hoping that her efforts to keep it secret by riding so early would not be scuppered.

“Quite the horsewoman. Alright, I’ll meet you at the entrance to the park at seven in a week.”

The rest of the night passed in a blur for Brienne, with her thoughts very occupied by her conversation with Ser Jaime. Thankfully, the distracted expression on her face must have come across as decidedly unwelcoming, because she was not approached by any other men.

Later that night, a tap at her door roused her from her thoughts, which had been jumping rapidly from what to do about Sansa and Joffrey to the caress of Ser Jaime’s hand on her waist and his breath gently tickling her neck.

Sansa stood in her doorway in her lacy nightgown, with a beaming smile and happy gleam in her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep until I’d spoken to you about Ser Jaime! You made such a handsome couple on the dance floor. It’s too wonderful! If you marry him when I marry Joffrey you will be my... Aunt-in-law!”

Brienne bit her tongue to stop herself wincing—when had ‘if’ Sansa married Joffrey turned into ‘when’ she married Joffrey?

“Ser Joffrey has made you an offer?”

“Not yet, but he will soon, I am sure.” Sansa made herself at home on Brienne’s bed. “Now, tell me all about Ser Jaime! I think every other woman at Frey’s tonight hated you for dancing with him, even all the married ladies!” she giggled.

“There’s nothing to tell. I am not fool enough to think he has any interest in me. I was the only woman present not out to catch him,” Lied Brienne. She could, however, see how it might be refreshing for someone so chased to be able to dance without worrying about leading the lady on. “But what of Ser Loras? You looked very happy to dance with him.”

“He is very handsome, but nothing to compare with my Stag,” Sansa enthused dreamily. Brienne gritted her teeth and decided to leave her assault for the next day, when she would hopefully feel less inclined to shake her charge and shout at her to stop being so henwitted.

Brienne feigned exhaustion and, predictably, spent the night tossing and turning, trying to quiet her thoughts by reminding herself that although he was devastatingly handsome, Ser Jaime was also intolerably rude and conceited.

~ * ~

Brienne woke to the sound of the door opening, unsure how late it was. Jaime crept in, along with a strong smell of ale.

“Any word?” she asked, hopefully.

“No. And there’s no need to look at me like that—someone spilt ale on my waistcoat.” He pulled off his boots and coat, and languished in one chair with his feet up on the other. “Sounds like Sandor Clegane came through a few hours before us, though.”

“I wonder what Clegane’s doing up here,” she wondered, before remembering his earlier words. “I didn’t look at you like anything!”

“Maybe not deliberately, but you have very expressive eyes. Quite astonishing ones, really…”

Brienne snuggled back down under the blankets. She didn’t know how to respond to what she thought might just be a rare compliment, so settled on a quiet, “Good night.”

A few minutes of silence stretched out. Sleep was not as easy to find as it had been earlier. From where she lay, she could see Jaime fidgeting on the hard chairs. He probably felt just as sore as she did after being shaken around all day. Who would ever know if she showed him a little kindness? _Nobody,_ she decided.

“Ser Jaime? You can sleep on the bed, if you like.”

“Do you think that’s safe?”

“Yes… I trust you.”

His eyes twinkled in the darkness as he moved closer. “Hmmm… I’ll not say if I think that’s wise or not—I’d much rather manage a few hours’ sleep tonight, at least.”

She felt the other side of the bed sag as he laid down on top of the blankets with a sigh of contentment.

It took Brienne some time to build up the courage to speak again, until she wasn’t even sure if he was still awake. “Thank you, Ser Jaime, you’ve been such a help to me today,” she whispered into the darkness.

He rolled over towards her and squeezed her hand. “Don’t mention it—I’m just pleased I could be of service to you,” he breathed back.

~ * ~

Given how physically and mentally drained he felt after the events of the day, Jaime was surprised that sleep was so elusive. Perhaps it was his thoughts drifting back to the conversation he’d had with his astute brother a few weeks ago, as they often did. Then again, it was probably just the warm presence of the woman next to him…

In spite of the stuffy oppression that came of being crammed into a room with far too many guests, the brick wall of the Tyrell’s ballroom that Jaime had propped himself up on was almost as cool as the chilled glass of champagne in his other hand,. He allowed his eyes to wander uninterestedly around the room, until he caught one of Miss Tarth’s hypnotising eyes as she entered in the wake of the Starks. Jaime raised his glass in salute and tried to decide how long he should wait to speak to her to avoid giving the gossips any further ammunition.

A cough from near his waist distracted Jaime from his deliberations. Tyrion looked up at him with a half mischievous, half perplexed expression.

“You’re not going to end up like Rhaegar Targaryen are you? Father would be most displeased.”

Jaime knew that Tyrion had always been far cleverer than him, but now his speech seemed to have become merely a random collection of words with no discernible meaning. What could Tyrion mean comparing him to the vilified Targaryen who had divorced his first wife to elope with a now equally shunned Stark girl, and now by all accounts lived in happy seclusion with several children. Perhaps the comparison was something to do with their good brother Robert, who had been up in arms until Lyanna had made it know that the elopement was very much more palatable to her than a marriage to Robert would ever have been. Still, Robert seemed to have recovered when he won Jaime’s “incomparable” sister instead, and although their marriage might not be described as precisely happy, Jaime could easily think of many which were much worse.

“Kindly speak in words that those of us with a normal level of intellect can understand?” He said with a frown.

Tyrion chuckled. “I suspect the perennial bachelor might be finally considering matrimony... and not to a young lady destined to meet with his father’s approval, which might make an elopement necessary... I’ve spoken to her you know, I think she’s delightful and would make a wonderful Lady Lannister one day.”

“I am still failing to understand your meaning brother.” Jaime caught Miss Tarth’s eyes across the room again. She gave a small smile, which most who didn’t know her as well as he had come to over the last few months would have missed, and gave a tiny incline of her head to bring his attention to the girl next to her. Miss Stark was smiling sweetly at Sandor Clegane of all people, their heads close together as they shared some kind of confidence. Jaime smiled back, Clegane would be a far better match for Sansa than Joffrey, in spite of his disfigurement and questionable relatives.

“Why are you here Jaime?” Asked Tyrion. “You always used to say balls are insipid and unworthy of your time.”

Jaime floundered. Why was he here? He didn’t rightly know- it had started with the rumours about Joffrey and Miss Stark as a means to monitor the pair, but he couldn’t say with any honesty that was the reason he continued to accept so many invitations.

“Your morning rides are very early nowadays too, do you happen to enjoy anyone’s company during them?” Continued Tyrion.

“Well, yes but that’s just because...” Jaime wasn’t sure why he was still riding with Miss Tarth every morning, all he knew was that he enjoyed her company more than almost anyone else’s now.

Tyrion raised his glass. “Brother, you are in love with Miss Tarth.”

“What?! No- we’re just friends!” Exclaimed Jaime.

Tyrion wrinkled his nose. “You can continue to tell yourself that, but when you examine your feelings I think you’ll come to see that I am, as always, correct.”

Jaime laughed, although the confused bubbling sensation in his stomach was very much at odds with any kind of humour. With the exception of her mesmerising eyes, nobody could describe Miss Tarth as a beauty, Jaime had been very aware of that when they first met. But somehow as he had grown to know the kind, honourable person she was, he had felt increasingly drawn to her. Now he saw her in a very different light, and wondered how anyone who knew her well could fail to see her as anything but the most attractive woman in any room. But surely that wasn’t love, love was what he had felt for Cersei- the feeling of being one half of a whole. With Brienne, he still felt whole, just complemented, as if they balanced each other out. 

He probed a little deeper into his emotions, feeling the same reluctant sense of wrongness as if he were exploring a bullet wound for shrapnel. Was he not still in love with Cersei? He had sworn to her that he would always love her, even though she no longer wanted him. But suddenly he knew with certainty and a strange sense of lightness that even if Cersei came to him and begged, he would never wish to rekindle their affair. But just because he had finally realised he was no longer in love with Cersei, didn’t mean that he was now in love with Brienne. Tyrion was jumping to completely inaccurate conclusions.

“Think whatever you like Tyrion.” Retorted Jaime, unable to keep the frustration from his voice. He strode across the ballroom to take advantage of both the Stark girls being occupied- he had to tell Brienne of his epiphany regarding Cersei as soon as possible.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the comments and to my lovely beta Katykrash (whom I totally forgot last chapter to acknowledge the awesome rename of Almacks to Frey's assembley rooms! Sorry!) 
> 
> Just to try and shed some light on the last section of the previous chapter- which perhaps I should have positioned in a different location... Jaime and Tyrion's conversation takes place some time in the few months between Jaime and Brienne's second meeting (which we see in this chapter) and their leaving to try and foil the elopement. In my defense, it was a last minute addition (unbetaed also- so all mistakes are mine alone!) because I realised a couple more bits of set up were needed for the rest of the fic to make more sense.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy chapter 3 :)

Chapter 3

That night, Brienne dreamed only of the man lying beside her.

~ * ~

The week passed slowly. Brienne felt trapped in nervous anticipation, wondering over long hours just what it was about the man she had again agreed to meet that set her heart a-flutter. No matter how she tried to remind herself of his arrogance, his dishonourable past, or that his interest in her was limited to the assistance she could provide with his nephew, these remonstrances simply wouldn’t take hold.

Blackwater Park extended from the fashionable quarters through quiet cultivated woodland planted in the time of the second Queen Danaerys, then all the way down to the estuary where, of an afternoon, gentlemen could sedately row their ladies and gaze longingly at them. Ton members of every age frequented the expansive park—squealing children attempting to escape their nursemaids; young bucks showing off their high-perch phaetons and horseflesh promised to be the sweetest goer in the city; elderly ladies promenading in their barouches, deigning now and then to notice a crony or a nervous debutante out for a stroll with a companion.

At the hour Brienne usually chose to visit, the park was all but empty, allowing her to gallop away her frustration at life in the city. Robb’s pretty grey mare seemed to relish discharging her own nervous energy as well. Although Brienne could see why the park was so popular, and was well aware that her sanity would probably have long died a death without it, she couldn’t help but find it a little too neat and pristine. She supposed to most it must look beautiful, but she preferred Tarth’s wild untamed hills and windswept beaches.

When she arrived on the morning of their planned meeting, Ser Jaime was already waiting for her, astride a white stallion. Brienne couldn’t resist a covert glance at his muscular thighs encased in skintight breeches. _How does he not split them?_

“Race you to the water,” he said by way of greeting.

Brienne grinned and set Greywind off with a gentle slap of the reins and kick of her heels. She prayed that being seated side saddle wouldn’t be too much of a disadvantage- it had been so long since she’d had any kind of competition. She revelled in the icy wind numbing her face and almost blowing her bonnet away, but didn’t dare look back to check on her lead.

Their horses’ hooves thundered over the grass and through the trees, Brienne deftly ducking under the whipping branches. She could hear Ser Jaime at her shoulder. Sensing with irritation that he could overtake her whenever he wanted, she urged Greywind on faster and faster. As she emerged from the tree line, sunlight suddenly streamed from behind a cloud, glinting on the water before her.

A strangled cry carried to her on the breeze. She looked back to see Ser Jaime’s horse rear, caught by a low-hanging branch. Before she could turn back to help, he had regained control and dismounted—the better to soothe his steed. Having learnt much about chivalry from her dearly old-fashioned father, Brienne knew that honour dictated she wait until he was ready to continue their race, so she, too, dismounted to show her intent. She couldn’t help but marvel at the gentleness he inadvertently showed as he patiently stroking his horse’s nose and murmured to it.

Brienne was so distracted by watching him that the first she knew of the man behind her was the sound of a twig snapping, followed by the cocking of a pistol. She slowly turned, cursing her carelessness. The footpad was of middling height, with his face hidden by the hood of his grubby old cloak.

“Your purse,” he demanded.

Before Brienne could reply, Ser Jaime shouted and barrelled between them. The man leapt backwards and turned the pistol on Jaime.

“Defending your lady?” he sneered. “I’ll have your purse, as well, Ser. Then I might have a play at her—with my eyes closed, of course. Get back on your horse and away or I might maim you... I’m thinking the right hand—you’d be fairly useless without that.”

Ser Jaime held his ground, only backing away when the man advanced on him menacingly, aiming the pistol at his chest. The look Jaime shot at Brienne over his shoulder told her he was guiding the man away from her. It worked well, until Jaime stumbled on the bank.

“Time for a little swim,” the footpad chortled.

Brienne took her opportunity, yanking her dress up unbecomingly and grabbing the small pistol she had hidden strapped to her leg. She had only seconds to aim, but her shot was true. The man dropped his weapon and fell to the ground, cradling his hand, then scrambled to his feet and ran full-pelt back to the woods. Ser Jaime fell backwards into the water in surprise.

“You might have warned me!” he sputtered.

“I would have lost the element of surprise,” Brienne reasoned as she tentatively approached the bank.

He harrumphed and held out his hands “Help me out, then.”

Too late, Brienne noted his mischievous expression. He gripped her hand and pulled her in alongside him. Her breath hitched at the shock of the cold water— _or perhaps it’s his body pressed against yours that has you gasping_ , she berated herself. Their wet clothes were no true barrier.

An unflattering noise, part scream and part growl, escaped her, and Ser Jaime laughed raucously. “How dare you!” she exclaimed as she pushed him deeper into the water.

At last they managed to extricate themselves and sat on the bank, dripping and breathless. “Was that a deliberate shot?” he asked, sounding impressed as he removed his coat. “Did you mean to shoot the pistol from his hand?”

“Of course I did.” Brienne tried not to sound insulted, and tried even harder to keep her gaze from his torso, his chest and arm muscles starkly obvious through the damp, clinging material of his shirt.

“Well, then, you’re a better shot than many men I know. Quite an unconventional woman. How did you become such a good shot and such a good rider? Although I think that little interruption requires a rematch of our race.”

Brienne felt her face colour at his praise, and she crossed her arms over her breasts, suddenly worried that the cold might be making her nipples visible through her gown. “Just practice. We should discuss Joffrey and Sansa, and then I must go home and get out of these wet things.”

“Ah, yes, you wouldn’t want to be caught getting cosy with a murderer,” he said bitterly.

“I didn’t say—”

He cut her off, “Would you like to hear the truth of it? Aerys was mad. If I hadn’t shot him in the back first, he would have killed our unarmed seconds, and then dishonoured my sister just as he’d threatened. And Cersei was my entire world then...”

“I might as well tell you why I care so much about Joffrey, troubled though he is,” Ser Jaime continued with a huff. “I’ve confessed all else. If I had not gone into exile in Essos, he might have been my son, and Myrcella and Tommen my children, too—all with no one the wiser. Passing strange how years away make the woman who was once your other half decide she was mistaken.”

Brienne slowly let out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “Why did you not tell anyone about Aerys?”

“Would it have mattered? I still killed him. And Essos was...tolerable.”

Brienne knew that she should be disgusted by the revelation of his forbidden love, yet instead she found her heart filled with pity. “I’m sorry,” she said softly.

At that, Ser Jaime’s head shot up. His green eyes sparked at her and he gave a sardonic chuckle. “I’ve never shared that with anyone before… but that was an unexpected response to my sordid tale. Now it’s your turn to confess. Why have you accepted a position as the Starks’ governess? I took the liberty of reviewing Tarth’s entry in the encyclopaedia of landowners. You are an heiress in your own right.”

Unnerved that he had shown this interest in her but compelled by the strange turn the morning had taken, Brienne found herself opening her heart, albeit matter-of-factly so as not to seem an object of pity.

“Nothing dramatic. Three failed engagements with no others forthcoming, and now I’m rather on the shelf. My father had to take the matter of the succession into his own hands. My Stepmother is a sweet creature, but I felt...superfluous after their marriage.”

He patted her arm sympathetically. “It must have been hard to step aside and leave your home and your birthright.”

Feeling a sting in her eyes, Brienne sniffed and attempted to turn the conversation to a less uncomfortable topic. “Tell me of Joffrey, quickly, before we catch our deaths of cold.”

Jaime sighed and slouched back on an elbow. “I cannot read him. He does not seem bent on marrying the girl, yet the more I mention her the more he seems to want to spend time with her. I worry that this is simply to vex me, and that our opposition is driving them closer and making them more secretive.”

“I have begun to worry about that, as well. Sansa seems to consider them as thwarted lovers in the way of Romeo and Juliet. But I have very much been wasting my breath by saying anything to her about him or Ser Loras.”

He absently ran the fingers of one hand through his sodden curls. “Perhaps we should step back and act only if matters seem to progress?”

“I think that may be sensible. But we should continue to watch them closely. I would not be above speaking to Lady Catelyn and Ser Robb if it comes to it.”

“Nor I to my sister and father,” he agreed.

Their decision made, Ser Jaime helped Brienne back onto her horse. Before they parted at the park gates, Jaime spoke in a hopeful tone, “I trust we are friends now?” All she could manage in response was a mute nod of astonishment.

Brienne returned home deep in thought, belatedly realizing she would have to blame poor Greywind for the state of her dress. The rest of the day she mulled over Jaime’s admissions, wondering what it would be like to be so in love that even years later, when all hope was lost, you could never try to move on with another. The knowledge that she would never inspire such ardour left her feeling suddenly bereft and flat, though she had thought she had made her peace with this inevitability long ago.

Ser Jaime soon became her daily companion on her morning rides. Sometimes they’d race through the park; oft times they would simply walk their horses and talk. Thankfully the months passed without any replication of the events of their first ride.

Even at social gatherings, he consistently sought her company for quiet conversation, though he did not invite her—or anyone else—to dance. Over time the focus of their chats turned from Joffrey and Sansa to their own lives and interests. Brienne found herself telling him the amusing tales of her disastrous engagements and wistful recollections of Tarth. In return, he spoke of his childhood in the Westerlands and fascinated her with stories of his travels through Essos.

If Brienne sometimes wondered whether Ser Jaime’s attention was because he genuinely enjoyed her company or simply sought refuge from flirtatious females and their scheming mamas, she certainly never asked him directly. He was often wildly inappropriate and frequently insulting, though always threaded with wry humour. She never detected any sincerity in his insults, though she did note an inexplicable softness about his eyes whenever they were together.

And if she felt much lighter after every occasion they were together, she decided not to dwell on it. _Just enjoy his friendship_ , she told herself.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, here we have it-the final chapter with the cliche Regency cheese! Hope Heyer isn't turning over in her grave too much... 
> 
> There's going to be a little epilogue today or tomorrow because I couldn't resist making somebody channel Catherine de Bourgh ;) But you'll have to wait and see who that is, although you probably don't have to be a genius to guess...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and kudos for chapter 3, you all really made me smile! And thanks again to my beta Katykrash, your help has been indispensible!

Chapter Four

The mail clattered into the forecourt below their window at dawn, its passengers spilling out and back on with little care for the early hour. Brienne awoke instantly and cringed inwardly as the events of the previous day came rushing back to her.

She did not regret allowing Jaime to sleep beside her, but she did very much regret the situation she was now in—how was she to get herself back into her dress without showing herself to him in only her flimsy shift? Not that she supposed her body was something he might desire a closer inspection of, but she still agonised at the thought.

Jaime, meanwhile, gave a snort and rolled a little closer to her. Brienne had no idea how he could sleep through the racket. She leapt out of bed and slipped back into her gown with as much quiet haste as possible, constantly casting nervous glances at Jaime. Once she was decent, she was left with the awkward task of trying to rouse him. They needed to be on their way as soon as possible if they stood any chance of catching their runaways.

“Ser Jaime…” Brienne gave his muscular shoulders a shake when her voice failed to produce anything but another snore.

Eventually his eyes fluttered open. “As lovely as it is to be awoken by you, my dear, must it be so early?”

Brienne blushed at the term of endearment. “Joffrey and Sansa,” she hissed at him. He groaned in response and threw an arm over his face.

“Coffee, for the love of the gods, woman—I must have coffee before we leave!” Taking that as her cue, Brienne scuttled from the room to order a light breakfast, hoping he would not fall back asleep.

The landlord’s obsequious smiles and repeated bowing unnerved her. Although he seemed sincere, Brienne still suspected a hint of mockery. A rebellious voice in her head told her to hurry back—she might see Jaime removing some of his clothes to freshen up before leaving.

At her knock, the door to their room flew open with a bang to reveal Jaime in his shirtsleeves. He turned back to sponging at a dark stain on his waistcoat. The sight of sculpted muscles and a scattering of golden hair amid his open buttons mesmerized Brienne, just as it had the day before.

~ * ~

One mild week four months after Brienne had arrived in the capital, everything began to go awry. First, Lady Catelyn received word that her son Bran had fallen from a tower and was unlikely to awake. She departed within the hour, bestowing brief kisses on her daughters and leaving most of her belongings behind.

Then Ser Robb tumbled from his horse at the feet of a pretty young lady, scraping his knees and dropping his heart, which she obligingly picked up and kept. He became a rare sight in the house thereafter and had eyes for no one else at social engagements.

To round off the unfortunate situation, Brienne had developed a premonition that Sansa was keeping something from her, or that she had missed something important. The guilty little voice in her head told her why this was: Ser Jaime. Her desire for him had become a distraction from her duties.

She often tried to reason with herself—it was attraction, nothing more. Although he was very handsome and could be kind to her, he was still capable of being insufferably annoying, and his arrogance was beyond anything. But the truth was that her times with him had become the bright spots in an otherwise mundane routine. Whenever she even attempted to distance herself from him, he would turn to her with a quirk of his eyebrows that seemed to indicate he was reading her mind and he refused to countenance any aloofness.

Brienne was musing on this over eggs and toast one morning when the maid entered with a note. Although she didn’t know why such an innocuous item should seem so ominous, dread filled her.

It was directed to her in Sansa’s hand, its seal already broken. Brienne unfolded it with trembling hands.

_Dear Miss Brienne,_

_I pray that upon reading this you will be the first to wish us happy. When next I see you, I shall be Mrs Baratheon— I am so happy I can scarcely breathe! I am only sorry that we have had to make this such a clandestine affair, but from what certain members of my darling Joffrey’s family have said (I am sure you are well aware of this, given how close you have become), we are led to believe many would staunchly oppose the match. I hope breaking this news to my family will not be too hard on you. I pray thoughts of our happiness might sustain you in this difficult task._

_My kindest regards,_

_Sansa_

Brienne dropped the missive onto her breakfast with a stifled cry, accidentally upsetting her coffee over the pristine white tablecloth.

_Oh, it was worse than we’d ever imagined!_ How had she missed the fact that this was brewing and allowed herself to fail so dramatically in her duties? Her heart broke at thoughts of Sansa bound to Joffrey for life, and at Lady Catelyn’s reaction upon her return from Winterfell, as well. Sansa’s actions would bring dishonour on the whole family; poor Arya would struggle to make any kind of match now, with the combination of her unorthodox views and her imminently scandalous sister.

The maid returned and busied herself tidying up the spilt coffee. “At what time did Miss Sansa leave?” Brienne pressed.

“I’m not sure, Miss Tarth,” she replied. “But Podrick thought he passed her on his way to the butcher’s around six, Miss.”

Brienne cursed Sansa for her thoughtlessness. And the broken seal meant she couldn’t hope to keep this secret for long, as the staff were surely already privy to the news. “I’m sure the Starks would very much appreciate if this matter weren’t spoken of...”

“Oh, no, Miss—we wouldn’t dream of it! Are you going after her?”

Brienne had already concluded that taking chase would be the only way. _But how?_ Ser Robb had already left in his curricle to court his lady love, and Brienne couldn’t bear the thought of going to him there. The only other vehicle the Starks owned was the large travelling carriage which had picked her up at the docks what felt like a lifetime ago. She would never be able to catch the errant lovers in that.

Brienne knew she must turn to the person she had come to trust most in all of Kingslanding, hoping that he still felt enough responsibility toward Joffrey to help her. She directed the driver to his address posthaste, her mind similarly racing.

She jumped down from the hack without waiting for the steps to be let down and dashed up the stairs of the house Ser Jaime shared with his brother before too many passers-by saw her. She briefly wondered what her father would say if he knew she was visiting the residence of two notorious bachelors unaccompanied.

Still, needs must, so she rudely pushed past the butler, grateful for her bulk and the fact that he clearly hesitated to repel a woman. Tyrion’s head popped out from a door on the left.

“Miss Tarth?” he blinked owlishly.

Immediately Ser Jaime’s face appeared at the head of the stairs, having emerged in a state of undress to investigate the commotion. “Brienne?” he queried, sounding sleepy and puzzled. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Brienne had no time to spare for niceties with Tyrion. She ran up the stairs towards him then faltered, unsure how to broach the subject. Suddenly, the enormity of the situation came home to her. Lady Catelyn was surely going to dismiss her, and polite society would forever brand her as one of the worst governesses ever to set foot in Kingslanding!

As a rare flood of tears sprang from her eyes, she thrust Sansa’s now-crumpled letter at him. But Jaime ignored the paper and enveloped her in his arms, allowing her to dampen his fresh shirt. From the corner of her eye she saw him make a shooing gesture in his brother’s direction until Tyrion backed into the room from which he’d come.

Struggling to regain control, she suddenly felt insistent fingers under her chin. He forced her to meet his eyes. “Pray, tell me what is wrong, Brienne. How can I help you?”

“Sansa and Joffrey have eloped,” she managed from her tear-choked throat. “I must stop them—please, may I borrow your curricle?”

Ser Jaime paused for a few seconds, regarding her in his embrace. Then he set her away from him. Brienne feared he was searching for a polite way to deny her.

“Let me get my coat,” he said gently.

~ * ~

The trance she had fallen into was broken by Ser Jaime grumpily announcing there was no saving his waistcoat even as he shrugged it back over his shoulders. They ate in a silent haste, and he gulped down an astonishing amount of coffee. Then they were away again, this time with an agreement to change drivers every few hours.

The road was unrelentingly monotonous for much of the morning, yet Jaime, buoyed by his morning coffee, kept up a constant stream of chatter. Much of his babbling seemed to address methods of punishing his errant nephew, along with a few suggestions for ways in which she might punish Sansa. Brienne largely remained quiet, only refuting his more ridiculous utterances. Hanging Joffrey from the walls of the Red Keep by his toes would scarcely restore the Lannister family’s reputation.

By eleven o’clock Jaime had decided that the best punishment for the two young people might be to simply allow them to marry. Brienne’s intended reply—that even if Sansa should commit a murder, she would not deserve such a fate—was forestalled by their arrival at the next tavern, the Fighting Dog. She hopped from the high seat and hurried inside to seek news, leaving Jaime to see to the horses.

The sight that greeted her in the taproom made her jaw drop. Joffrey was sitting on the floor, blood streaming from his nose; Sandor Clegane stood over him, rubbing his hand. Arya stood next to Clegane, arms crossed and a bloodthirsty look on her face. Sansa sat sobbing in the window seat. Four pairs of eyes turned to her immediately, unwelcoming stares turning to a variety of expressions as recognition dawned. Then four voices all spoke at once.

“Brienne!” Arya exclaimed happily. “I didn’t think you would come to rescue Sansa, too!”

“Miss Tarth…” Clegane rumbled uncertainly.

“Hab you come do hid me, doo?” Joffrey’s intended snarl had a rather different effect with his plainly broken nose.

“B- b- b-Brienne!” wailed Sansa. Brienne crossed to the seated girl and wrapped her in her arms.

Taking a deep breath, she attempted to play the competent governess. “One at a time, please. Now, if someone could please explain what on earth has happened here?”

A silence descended in which Joffrey scowled, Clegane looked embarrassed, and Sansa shook her head with her face hidden in the rather travel-stained handkerchief Brienne had just offered. Arya seemed very satisfied with the opportunity to recount the tale with none likely to interrupt.

“I found Sansa’s note before breakfast,” Arya began. Brienne recalled the broken seal on Sansa’s note. Arya had probably already been well on her way when the maid brought Brienne the note— at least the servants had not broken the seal themselves. “Then Clegane came to call and insisted on accompanying me.” Brienne frowned at the man, who should know full well that calling so early was wholly improper.

“I thought they might be planning something and wanted to talk her out of it,” he admitted rather bashfully. Brienne replied with a hard look that conveyed her intention to interrogate him about his intentions towards Sansa at the earliest opportunity.

“We caught up to them here. Joffrey was about to hit Sansa, so we hit him first. And then you arrived,” Arya finished triumphantly. Brienne winced at Arya claiming some of the credit for punching Joffrey, her attempts to cure her charge of her violent streak had obviously been wasted time.

Sansa’s reddened eyes and blotchy cheeks emerged from behind the handkerchief to continue the story. “I only told him I’d changed my mind and perhaps we should go back and have a proper wedding when we could convince our parents—but he started shouting and said he’d leave me here!”

“I’d changed by bind anyway,” the little bounder spat out. “Stupidest mistake I ever made. I should have guessed you’d turn into a wretched little cry baby as soon as we left the city.”

Clegane launched himself toward Joffrey, who responded with a look of false bravado but nevertheless stood and scuttled towards the door.

Loud familiar laughter floated into the room from the courtyard, followed by what Brienne thought must be supposed to be expletives from Joffrey—“duck you, Undle Jaibe” being the predominant one. She reached behind Sansa to close the window.

Arya seated herself in a nearby chair. “But how did you get here Brienne?” she asked.

“Curricle,” Brienne replied firmly, wishing to deter any discussion about Jaime. She belatedly remembered to conceal her hand which still bore his ring.

“But what am I going to do now?!” moaned Sansa. “Everyone will wonder where I have been. I’m _ruined_ —and now I’ve ruined Arya, too!” Her sobbing intensified, though her sister looked quite pleased at the prospect of being ruined.

“You are not going back to Kings Landing yet,” Brienne said decidedly, having made a snap decision. “Both of you are on your way to visit your Aunt in the Vale. I will return to town and ensure the story is circulated, and that Joffrey will not contradict it.”

“Ugh, must I?” exclaimed Arya with an unladylike eyeroll. “Aunt Lysa is so peculiar and cousin Robin’s a spoilt brat.”

But Sansa’s face lit up at the suggestion. “Just for a week or so,” reassured Brienne. “Now, why don’t you write your mother a letter before you depart? I must…see to my horses.”

“Horses, is it?” Clegane said drily. Brienne shot him a look that promised repercussions if he didn’t hold his tongue.

As she entered the forecourt, she noted that the clock tower there read only half past eleven. _How had merely half an hour had passed since their arrival?_ There was no sign of Joffrey, but Ser Jaime remained perched on the seat of the curricle. He grinned at her as she hoisted herself up next to him with the help of his outstretched hand.

“Please tell me you did that to Joffrey,” he said excitedly.

“Clegane. Has Joffrey gone back to town?”

“Yes, and don’t worry—I’ve made it quite clear what will happen if he breathes a word of this to anyone. I take it the girls are inside?”

“Yes, Clegane is going to convey them to the Vale to see their Aunt. And we need to return to Kingslanding as soon as possible so I might spread the story of their surprise visit there.”

“Hmmm…” Ser Jaime searched her face, making Brienne blush. Then he nimbly jumped down to request fresh horses.

A wave of sadness engulfed her as she realised that in another day or so she’d be back at the Stark residence, alone. It felt like an age since they’d left there, and although she had been exhausted and uncomfortable for the most part, she had grown used to his constant presence. She recognized that her reluctance to return was because she would miss him dreadfully, with only their morning rides together again, but cut those thoughts off before they could take root.

Sansa and Arya filed out of the inn and were handed up into an open carriage by Clegane just as Ser Jaime vaulted back into the curricle. Seeing the little group, Jaime raised a hand in greeting, which was met by raspy laughter from Clegane and surprise from the girls. Both vehicles trundled out at the same time, occupants exchanging perplexed waves. Reaching the Kingsroad again after bypassing the stony lane to the inn, Ser Jaime turned decisively left.

“Where are you going? Kingslanding is the other way!” Clegane hollered with amusement from behind them.

“Harrenhal!” Jaime called in reply, giving a jaunty wave with his hat then springing the new team. Brienne caught Clegane’s laughter and the girls’ screams—“But Briennnnnnnnnnnnne!”—yet nothing seemed quite real amongst the tumble of thoughts and emotions in her mind.

“Jaime! What are you doing? Stop this carriage!” she squealed, sounding most unlike herself. Ser Jaime looked at her contritely, then slowed the horses down and manoeuvred them out of the way of any traffic.

“After we’ve come all this way, it would be a bit sad if there were no wedding today, wouldn’t you agree?” he asked, a twinkle in his eye but a note of uncertain hope in his voice.

“You’re being ridiculous—you cannot wish to marry _me_!”

“Brienne, I am in love with you. The only reason I came on this absurd chase was for you. I don’t give a damn about Joffrey or Sansa…well, at least nowhere near as much as I do about _you_.”

Brienne spluttered nonsense, sure she looked like a gaping fish.

“You looked at me with your beautiful eyes, brimming with tears and I simply could not bear your misery. That’s when I realised I love you and I’d do anything to secure your happiness. I spent all of yesterday wondering if you could ever feel the same. Do you think you might, one day? Don’t imagine that I wish to be married in the same clothes I’ve worn for two days, smelling of ale, but neither do I want to wait…if you’ll have me, that is, Brienne?”

Suddenly, everything made sense again. This feeling of not wanting to be apart, coupled with the feeling that he was the most wonderful man she’d ever met, even when he was being impossible, could only mean that she was in love with Jaime, too. She had no idea what she’d done to deserve his love, but she could sense that his speech was truthful, and full of genuine regard.

Brienne smiled widely in spite of herself and nodded softly. “If you are certain, I would like that very much. I find that I think I’m in love with you, too,” she whispered. Jaime’s face relaxed into a look of such happiness that Brienne’s already full heart swelled to bursting. He leaned closer and pulled at the ribbons tied under her chin.

“What are you doing?”

“Removing this atrocity of a bonnet so I can kiss you.”


	5. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

Lady Catelyn was not expecting to meet her daughters—and accompanied by Sandor Clegane no less—in an out-of-the-way inn on the Kingsroad. She certainly would not have expected such a warm greeting from the two girls either. Yet Arya had bounded straight into a warm hug and Sansa’s eyes had welled up, preventing Catelyn from immediately interrogating them about how they came to be there, and without Joffrey. Brienne’s letter had terrified her with a story of an elopement, but there must have been a misunderstanding.

Later, over warm bowls of stew containing an unidentifiable meat and a great quantity of carrots, their stories were shared. Catelyn told them of receiving Brienne’s note—had it really been only 2 days before?—and immediately leaving Bran’s bedside in a blind panic for Kingslanding.

Between them, Sansa and Arya told a tale of a failed elopement and a realisation of true personalities, from which Catelyn suspected much had been omitted. At present though, the main source of her confusion was Brienne’s whereabouts.

Sansa explained Brienne’s plan to return to the city and spread the story of their visit to Aunt Lysa. But, she explained, if they wished to change the story—perhaps to say that the girls had gone to meet their mother on her return journey—they would certainly reach their town house before Brienne.

Catelyn was so gratified to see the friendly, if somewhat scheming, look that passed between the two usually quarrelsome girls that she forestalled further questioning. Surely all would become clear when they reached Kingslanding in a day or two.

Unfortunately, this was not the case. Brienne’s belongings were still in her room, but the governess was nowhere to be seen. The servants said the last they’d seen of her was four days ago, when she dashed out towards a top-of-the-range curricle with a team of horses. They could expound at great length about the finer points of the conveyance and likely speed of the horses but were unable tell her anything about who Brienne had been joining in it—just that he was a man wearing a blue coat.

Having had quite enough of these various evasions, Catelyn summoned her daughters to the drawing room. “Girls, I have been kept in the dark long enough. Where is Brienne?”

Again her daughters shared a look, seeming to decide that it was safe to speak.

“She eloped!” Sansa breathed reverently, eyes shining.

“It’s going to be hilarious when everyone finds out, especially—”

“Arya!” Sansa interjected, “I think they suit remarkably well, and it’s all so romantic.”

“But he’s so…” Arya wavered.

“Exactly, they balance each other out very nicely,” Sansa sniffed.

“Hmmm, well, at least he’s disgustingly rich,” Arya concluded somewhat glumly.

Shaken, Catelyn groped for the sofa behind her and lowered herself onto it. “For the love of the Gods, please, just tell me who Brienne has eloped with!” she nearly screeched.

Before either girl had time to more than open their mouths, the butler entered and announced one of the last people Catelyn wished to see at that moment—or any, really. “Lady Baratheon.”

She stalked in with vengefulness in her eyes and tightly clenched fists. “Lady Stark, I have been hearing the filthiest rumours which I know cannot be true. I was compelled to come here immediately to ensure their falsity,”

Sansa gave a frightened-sounding squeak but Arya moved behind the sofa and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Catelyn’s heart thudded painfully. Though she had not been here to prevent Sansa’s being taken in by Joffrey’s insincerities, she would be damned if she would countenance this woman’s disparagement of her precious daughter. She shot to her feet, her own fists now clenched in righteous rage.

“How dare you enter my home, after all your son has done! I am immeasurably grateful that Sansa saw his true nature before they could go through with such an ill-advised match. Any joining of our families will be over my dead body now!”

Lady Baratheon’s wrath receded a little, replaced by confusion. “I assure you I have no inkling of what you speak—my Joffrey would never lower himself to wed a Stark! It is the rumours about Jaime and your ugly governess that have bought me here.”

Sansa and Arya’s sheepish expressions confirmed everything for Catelyn. _How had I not anticipated this possibility? And what to do about it now?_

First she must rid herself of this unwelcome guest. Yet before their tense exchange could dissolve further into a shouting match, the tinkle of the doorbell and returning trudge of the butler portended the arrival of more visitors.

“Ser and Mrs Lannister.”

This announcement, along with a chorus of gasps, from Lady Baratheon’s stifled scream to Sansa’s pleased “oh!” to Arya’s near-bark of laughter, had Catelyn’s fingers at her temples.

Ser Jaime bounced into the room looking elated; only pausing at the sight of his sister. Brienne blushed on his arm and tried to avoid eye contact with everyone.

“Well, hello Lady and Misses Starks, and didn’t expect to see you here, sister,” he sketched a bow and clutched at Brienne’s hand as she attempted to sidle out of the room after a brief curtsey. “Just bought the wife to collect her things. You may all congratulate us, now.”

“Jaime! You cannot be serious! I know you—you’d never marry that- that- _thing_! What will Father say?” Lady Baratheon sounded surprisingly close to tears. Jaime’s expression, on the other hand, rapidly turned from happy to angry.

“I love her, which is more than you can say about your husband, sister. I don’t imagine my wife and I will have much to do with you and your family now, as you seem determined to offer such insult.”

Ser Jaime smiled softly at Brienne, who sent a look of adoration back which melted Catelyn’s heart. Catelyn stopped trying to think of a way to pull Brienne aside to check that she had truly wanted to marry this man. Now she could see that theirs, unlikely as it seemed, was a love match.

“I must ask you to leave my house now, Lady Baratheon. Do not bother us again,” Catelyn said with no small amount of satisfaction.

Sansa and Arya lunged at Brienne with hugs, cries of congratulations and exclamations over the ring on her finger. Unbelievably, Catelyn found herself telling Ser Jaime that he and his wife would always be welcome in her home, and confirming that by immediately inviting them to stay for supper.

Arya turned to the newlyweds with a frown. “You’re not always going to be making eyes at each other and living in each other’s pockets, are you?”

“Almost certainly,” Ser Jaime replied, trying to sound flippant but actually coming across as rather sincere.

“I think we’re going to be very happy” said Brienne quietly.

**THE END**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I hope you've all enjoyed my little jaunt in an imaginary Regency Westeros for my first multi-chapter fic. Unfortunately this is probably going to be the last thing I write for a while, or at least the last coherent thing (real life... new baby with an ETA of tomorrow- eek!) But I'll hopefully still be able to enjoy all the wonderful fics you are all writing, and will be shouting at my TV with you all come 14th April!
> 
> One last thanks to Katykrash for being an all round fabulous beta- for probably despairing over my over-long sentences and paragraphs, pointing out inconsistencies and Regency-ing it up to the max!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for getting to the end! All constructive feedback is appreciated!


End file.
